


and now it seems my only chance is giving up the fight

by philthestone



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 12 Days of Starmora, F/M, be the fic u want to see in the world, once again i needed something soft so i wrote something soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 09:38:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13051386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: She thinks about how she knows how
difficult it is to watch those closest to you come close to death, to feel
responsible for them in the middle of chaos, to feel as though near-losses are
your near-failures.An occupational hazard in their
line of work, to be sure, but Gamora is good at compartmentalizing where Peter
is not.





	and now it seems my only chance is giving up the fight

**Author's Note:**

> written for the last day of 12 days of starmora -- **family**
> 
> title is from abba and reviews are blessed and good

The silence of the room around them feels almost unnatural, wrapping everything in a thick sound-proof quilt or one of those older model space suits that Rocket treats with such derision. _Too_ quiet, for a ship that is usually humming with energy and alternate bouts of chaos. 

Gamora hardly registers it, despite it speaking of the concerning fact that the _Quadrant’s_ engines are temporarily down. Instead, her limbs are filled with a fluid direction as soon as the hiss of the door sliding shut behind them sounds, her hands smoothing upwards easily from Peter’s wrist to his shoulder, pulling him forward and then down to sit on the edge of the bed. The old furs underneath them, the ones that somehow never got thrown away or replaced, dip with their movements, grounding Gamora even as they both release a breath in tandem, as though some taught wire has finally been released.

Perhaps that’s not entirely off the mark, Gamora thinks, watching the ridge of Peter’s shoulders slump forward, utterly exhausted. She can see the lingering scorch marks on the curve where his jacket covers his bicep, and the debris still clinging to his hair. Gently, movements slow and fluid, she slides her hand up from his shoulder to his neck, nimble fingers deactivating the mask that he’s still wearing, whether as a result of a distracted mind or because it offered a familiar form of protection – she can’t quite tell.

Peter’s eyes are closed when the cybernetics unpiece themselves and collapse back into the activator behind his ear. Gamora wonders what it means that she does not find it at all hard to be soft here, to feel anchored to the sudden quiet of their room. The team has been – _had_ been – that way as a whole today, she thinks, all assured of their roles, sliding easily into their positions once disaster struck.

Disaster strikes more often than not, Gamora knows. Things like this are more a question of stamina, of when everything becomes just a little too much.

She takes a moment to press a kiss to Peter’s exposed forehead before softly pulling the activator from the shell of his ear. With her other hand, she reaches up and very lightly cards her fingers through the hair at his temple, hand curving up through his bangs and finally cradling the back of his head.

His hands are still shaking. She thinks about how it was not an unusual job, not anything outside of their comfort zone. That this is just how they live sometimes – more times than not. 

She thinks about how she knows how difficult it is to watch those closest to you come close to death, to feel responsible for them in the middle of chaos, to feel as though near-losses are your near-failures.

An occupational hazard in their line of work, to be sure, but Gamora is good at compartmentalizing where Peter is not.

“Peter,” she says, like it is part of her exhale. Against his knee, her free fingers tangle in his, the fabric of his gloves catching against her skin. She holds on tightly, willing the subsiding tremors to stop altogether.

And again, “ _Peter_.”

Eyes still closed, he swallows, nods. Gamora pulls his head forward, close enough until their breaths mingle, until she can see every line on his face, shadowed against his pale Terran skin. She can feel his pulse where her thumb lies against his neck; strong, solid, harmonizing with hers in its different beat. She presses her forehead against his, a moment, and they breathe together for three cycles before she ducks her head and presses her lips against his, slow and coaxing. His mouth is warm, his tongue warmer – she can feel his fingers tighten around hers as he responds, an edge of desperation creeping into the grip. She offers another kiss, still soft and muted, feels the scratch of his beard against her chin before she pulls away.

From its place in his hair, her hand comes down to cup his cheek, her thumb automatically wiping away at the fresh wetness clinging to his cheekbones. 

“‘M okay,” he says immediately, green eyes finally open and looking at her through wet lashes. His smile is small, a unique brand of self-deprecating that makes Gamora’s throat tighten. They are all alive, of course – all unharmed, even. No one in their little patchwork family is hurt. 

And yet – 

He says this as an assurance, Gamora thinks – as a selfless act, rather than a survivalist defence against weakness. She has noticed this about him, in their years together.

Gamora rubs her thumb over his knuckles where their hands lay against his knee.

“I know,” she says.

Peter nods again, and she takes another moment to brush her fingers through the hair at his temple, smiling at the way he immediately leans into her touch. A beat later, the room around them comes to life with the hum of the engine restarting.

Gamora feels Peter’s heavy exhale against her wrist and opens her mouth to speak when there is a muffled clang from across the hall outside their quarters, and the echoing voices of their teammates; Rocket’s aggravated whine, Drax’s booming laughter, the muffled feminine notes of Mantis likely protesting something. The silence is broken, but they are not, Gamora thinks, her mouth curling upwards in a smile despite herself.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Peter.

“We can retire early tonight,” she promises, and he has time to turn his head and press a kiss to the inside of her wrist in thanks before a voice sounds much closer outside the hallway, right outside their door:

“I am _Groot_!”

“We’ll be right out!” Gamora calls, and stands, pulling Peter to his feet as she goes.


End file.
